The Stand-In
by ilarual
Summary: With her future hanging on her performance in an upcoming recital, Maka is panicked when an emergency calls her long-time dance partner away indefinitely. But the studio's resident pianist is a man of many talents, and with his help she might just be able to pull it off after all. SoMa with allusions to other pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N-** Well, here's one of my many entries for the SE Reverse Resonance Bang (Reverb) 2015! Hazard of being a mod is somehow ending up with more projects on your plate than you know what to do with... hmmm...

ANYWAY, my artist partner who devised the basis for this AU is translucentsprinkles, and the cover image for this fic is hers. I'll include a link to her work in my profile once she has posted. I hope I did her art justice, because if I'm being honest, I haven't been in a dance studio since I was ten or eleven and have forgotten nearly everything of significance.

Hella shoutout to Professor Maka, who took time out of her birthday to beta this for me. You are the absolute best, ProMa, and I dedicate this fic in all its fluffiness, to you.

* * *

Maka sprinted down the street, gulping down lungfuls of the sticky July air. Her duffel bag thumped against her thigh. Between breaths, she muttered a long litany of violent cursing against the fuckbucket who had taken her usual parking spot… and the dumbshits who had taken every other spot in a four block radius from the academy.

It was unlike her, but she had been running late anyway, and the extra time she had spent circling the block trying to find a spot— _any_ spot— to park in had put her severely behind schedule.

She finally reached the door she was looking for, wrenched it open, flung herself into the relative darkness within, and took the stairs two at a time. At the first landing, she stopped for a moment, hand on the railing, and took a few deep breaths. There was nothing she could do about her flushed and sweaty face, but she could at least be composed and not horribly out of breath when she arrived at work.

Miss Marie's Academy of Dance had retained its name long after the proprietress had exchanged her Miss for a Mrs. It was housed in the upper two floors of a building on Main Street that was far longer than it was wide. The building was easily a hundred years old, with embossed copper ceilings that had long since turned green. The large, open rooms made for perfect studios, but the newly-installed maplewood floors contrasted sharply with the turn of the century architecture that characterized the rest of the building. The entire place smelled of dust and resin, a warm, comfortable smell that persisted no matter how immaculately clean the rooms were kept, as if the scent had sunk into the walls and the changing room carpets.

She climbed the last flight of stairs and pushed open the door, trying and failing to keep the eternally-sticky hinges from squeaking. Maka winced; she had been hoping to sneak in and get into the studio where her class was surely already waiting for her without encountering Marie. The soft disappointment Marie would express to students and staff who arrived late was much worse than any tongue-lashing could ever be, because she was so _nice_ about it.

Well, maybe she'd still be able to—

"Maka, is that you?"

Or maybe not. _Damn_.

"Yeah," she called. "Sorry I'm a little behind schedule, there was this—"

Marie poked her head out from her office. "Don't worry about it, hon," she said cheerfully. "Come on in here, there's someone I'd like you to meet!" She gave a little wave, gesturing Maka eagerly toward her.

Still uncertain whether she was in trouble or not, Maka stepped forward into her boss's office.

The office was in its usual state of organized chaos. The filing cabinet drawers were hanging open and there were no less than three stacks of manila folders several inches high on the desk and floor; Maka was willing to bet there was probably at least one more somewhere she couldn't see. Marie had an incredible work ethic, but Maka doubted it would ever be directed at controlling her workspace.

She was beaming as she ushered Maka inside, and for a wild half-second, she thought she was finally going to meet Marie's elusive husband. She'd known a few of the… "gentlemen" her boss had dated before settling down with her husband, and the cream of _that_ crop had been an ex-con with a NOFUTURE tattoo over his eye that he'd gotten in prison. At first glance, the man loitering in the office, leaning on a bookshelf more occupied by broken laces and mugs still half-full of last week's coffee than books, seemed to fit Marie's weirdo quotient nicely.

When she took a closer look, however, she was immediately disabused of that notion. White hair or no, he was way too young, and Marie might have questionable taste in men, but she was no cougar.

"Maka, I'd like you to meet our new resident pianist, Solomon Ev—"

"Soul," he interrupted, sticking out his hand. "Nice to meet ya."

She shook his outstretched hand, feeling the calluses on his fingertips before he drew his hand back. "Likewise," she said, meeting his eyes squarely. "My name's Maka Albarn. I teach intermediate and advanced ballet, and intermediate jazz."

His eyes, which had been dropping away from hers, flickered back up in interest. "Jazz dancing, huh?" He gave her a crooked grin. "I look forward to that."

Maka gave him a tentative smile in return, too busy trying not to stare at his unusual appearance— which she wasn't completely certain was natural— to offer up much enthusiasm.

"We're very glad to have you," Marie piped up, still bubbly even by her cheerful standards.

Maka nodded, latching onto that train of thought. "Yes, ever since Mrs. Hedstrom retired, we've been relying on an old boombox and it just isn't the same."

"I bet not," he said with another grin that made him look faintly predatory. It was a good look on him, she decided, and this time she returned his smile in full.

Marie stood off to the side between them, a knowing smile of her own lurking in the corners of her mouth.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Maka discovered that Marie's assessment was entirely correct— having Soul on staff really was a blessing. His predecessor had been a gifted pianist, and very patient even with the youngest students, but Soul was… well, she didn't know _what_ he was. She didn't know much about music. She only understood rhythm and the swell of emotion she felt when the choreography Marie developed for her seemed to align perfectly with the song.

But Soul? Soul seemed to live and breathe music, seemed to become music itself when he played. She might not get music the way some people seemed to, but even she could tell that much. Any piece of music put in front of him he could sight-read credibly in an instant, and by the next rehearsal— if not by the end of the _current_ rehearsal, even— he had a healthy familiarity with the music and could lead the class beautifully. There was an elegance to his playing so obvious that even Maka could sense it, something that Mrs. Hedstrom, though talented, had lacked.

The word _virtuoso_ came to mind, and more than once she wondered what someone like him was doing in a place like this.

He was a bit of an oddball, too. He was quiet most of the time, and Maka got the impression that he was shy, but he had been known to complain— _loudly_ — when he had to repeat the same twelve bars twenty times in a row because the four-year-olds she was teaching were having trouble with their alignment. More than once she had hurled a slipper at his head for upsetting her class.

He was arrogant and self-deprecating by turns, often thoughtful and always sarcastic, sometimes funny when he wasn't trying to be, and he got under her skin so easily it was almost comical. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. Maka got the impression that his snarky comments might be an incredibly awkward attempt at flirting. She probably would have thought he was just being an asshole except for the fact that he deliberately took his time with packing up his bag and generally loitering around while she was changing her shoes and supervising her students' exit from the studio, just so he could ever so conveniently be heading out the door at the same time she was, to walk with her down the stairs.

All in all, the whole package that was Soul Last-name-still-unknown was intriguing to her. Intriguing and _cute_.

One evening at the beginning of August, however, he broke their usual pattern. She was crouched on the floor removing her slippers a few feet from the piano when he looked up from the lazy shuffling of sheet music that didn't seem to actually be achieving anything.

"Hey, Maka?"

"Mm?" she asked, focused on lacing up her cross trainers.

"Why do you work here?"

She looked up at him to find those garnet eyes watching her intently. "What?" she asked, confused.

Soul shrugged. "I mean, I've seen you dance with Jackie, and when you're trying to teach kids who are only here because their parents want them taught to be coordinated enough to walk and chew gum at the same time, and you're amazing." He blushed bright red, and Maka got the impression that he had been intending to play this much cooler. "You… I mean, you're confident and stuff. Didn't you ever want to perform?"

Maka laughed a little, without much humor. "Yeah, I did."

"So what happened?"

She appraised him with a sardonic eye. "I could ask you the same thing."

The blush that had been fading away returned in full force on his cheeks, and he ducked his head to focus very intently on the clasp of his messenger bag. "That's different," he said. "I'm not talented enough… I mean, I guess my family hoped I'd…" He heaved a deep sigh, and with what seemed like a great deal of effort, looked up at her. "I kind of hate being onstage," he said. "All those eyes on me."

Maka nodded. "I can understand that. It's intimidating."

"But you wanted to do it anyway," he ventured.

"Yeah."

"So what's stopping you?"

It was her turn to glance away, as she threw a bittersweet smile at the floor. "I dropped out of the conservatory when I was nineteen. My grandparents were getting really old and needed someone to take care of them. My mom wouldn't do it, and she didn't have any siblings, so there wasn't anyone else. I'm Japanese on that side and… I don't know, it's not right to stick your relatives in a nursing home when they can't take care of themselves anymore. Family should take care of their own."

When she ventured a look up at him, there was something like awe in his expression. "So you gave up your dream to look after them, then."

She shrugged. "It wasn't really a hard choice to make," she said. "I think about how it could've been sometimes, but I don't regret it. I'm happy I could make my grandparents' last years more comfortable."

"Do you ever think about going back?" he asked.

"All the time."

* * *

Even at night, during the warm weather of mid-August, the streets of downtown tended to be pretty busy, especially on a Saturday. If it weren't for the distinctive shaggy mess of Soul's bone-white hair, Maka never would have spotted him in the crowd. As it was, she had to look twice to make sure it was actually Soul she was seeing and not just some old guy with an Einstein-esque sense of style.

Once she had determined that it was, in fact, her pianist, she called out his name, jumping and waving so that he would see her over the taller people filling the sidewalk. He turned to see who had shouted, eyes widening for a moment before he snorted and shook his head. He doubled back and met her in front of the vintage vinyl shop.

"You... are a dork, you know that?" he said by way of greeting.

She shrugged, grinning. "I didn't expect to see you here! What are you doing out so late?"

"Just family stuff," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You?"

"I was just heading over to Frankie's." Inspiration struck her and she knotted her fingers together behind her back, bouncing up on the balls of her feet eagerly. "Would you like to come with?"

His eyebrows furrowed in adorable confusion. "You're asking me to go to a bar with you?"

She giggled. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

That enormous shark-grin was back on his face. "Sounds like a good time. So, Miss Albarn, can I buy you a drink?"

She laughed again, charmed. "I see no reason why not!"

* * *

Frankie's was a little dive on a quiet side street downtown, not as obnoxious as the sports and country bars on Main Street or as rowdy as the clubs. It was a laid-back place, with a neon tube Guinness sign hanging in the window, an ancient pinball machine in one corner and a jukebox with a highly eclectic selection in the other .

Once they were inside, Maka started scanning the room, eyes darting across the thin crowd. Before Soul could figure out what she was looking for, she grabbed his hand. For a half-second he was elated, but then she dragged him to a large booth to the right of the bar, and he suddenly realized that this was a group outing. His stomach, which had been doing excited backflips from the second she had asked him to come along with her, settled down heavily.

So this was a friend thing. A very friendly invitation from Maka, who was naturally friendly, to go on a friend outing with her friends. Friend-like.

 _Fuck_.

Well, he only had himself to blame for getting his hopes up. Maka's invitation had been kind of ambiguous, but he was the one who had let his stupid crush run away with him.

When they reached the table, he was relieved to find that he already knew most of the people there. If it had been a big group of strangers, then Maka or no Maka, he would have bailed faster than a sailor in a sinking lifeboat. But he recognized Tsubaki, the beginning ballet and jazz teacher, and Kim and Jackie, who taught ballroom styles. There were three other people he had never met before, and Maka eagerly introduced him.

"Soul, this is Ox Ford," she said, pointing to a bald-headed guy sitting uncomfortably close to Kim. He would have felt an "our hairstyles make us look like old dudes" kinship with the guy, except he also looked like a pretentious douchebag with the ugly sweatervest he was wearing. "Ox teaches up on the third floor, he's our tap instructor. And that's Kilik over there in the corner, he teaches the beginning and advanced jazz classes, as well as beginning hip-hop."

Kilik reached across the table to shake Soul's hand. "Hi, I'm the token black friend," he said wryly.

Soul immediately felt put at ease by the friendly smile on Kilik's face. "Soul," he said, leaning over to return the handshake. "I'm the new pianist."

"Yeah, Maka's mentioned you," he said.

"I guess I don't really get upstairs much," Soul said.

Kilik shook his head, grinning. "Well, you wouldn't," he said. "No piano upstairs, which is why the tap and hip-hop classes are up there— we don't have piano accompaniment."

"Makes sense," he replied awkwardly.

Maka reclaimed his attention when she pointed to a stunning blue-eyed blonde sitting between Kilik and Tsubaki. "And that's Liz Thompson," she finished. "She's Tsubaki's girlfriend."

It was funny, Soul thought absently as he made some vague comment in greeting, that even before being made aware of the fact that Liz was both taken and gay (bisexual?), he hadn't been the slightest bit attracted to her despite how gorgeous she was. Lately, it had been harder and harder to muster up attraction to other women, and it was all Maka's fault.

He'd never really caught a case of the feelings this badly before, he mused as he slid into the booth next to her. He'd had the occasional crush here and there, had tried dating like a normal fucking human being, but nothing had really stuck. Nothing that left him feeling as cheesy and sentimental as Maka had a tendency to do. He just couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her.

Which, admittedly, could have something to do with the fact that most of the time he was around her she was in a form-fitting leotard that left nothing whatsoever to the imagination. But it wasn't just that she had amazing legs and an ass that had to have been sculpted by God himself. She was just… he didn't know what she was. He had no idea what to do with her and it was making him dizzy.

"Where's Black*Star, anyway?" she asked as she slid into the booth, interrupting his train of thought— which was probably good, because he was on the verge of getting so sappy he might as well make himself into maple syrup and get it over with.

Liz rolled her eyes. "Where do you think?"

Maka grimaced. "Making out with your sister in the bathroom?"

"'Making out' is probably a mild term," Liz said in disgust. "I try not to think about Black*Star being in any way sexual."

At that precise moment, just as Soul was sitting down next to Maka (and thoroughly enjoying the fact that the booth was just crowded enough that their thighs and shoulders were touching), the music from the jukebox changed. Some cheerful Elvis tune warbled to a close, to be replaced with—

" _My anaconda don't, my anaconda don't, my anaconda don't want none—"_

Soul groaned. "Who the fuck paid 75¢ to listen to this garbage?" he wondered aloud.

Ox was shaking his head. "Speak of the devil…" he muttered, at the exact moment that a muscle-y Japanese guy with hair spiked to hell and dyed an eye-searing shade of neon blue came bounding up to the table like he was spring-loaded, trailed by a curvy blonde who could only be Liz's sister.

"DIS MAH JAM, BITCHEZ," Blue Hair proclaimed in what was most definitely not an indoor voice. "WHO WANTS TO COME GET REKT IN A DANCE BATTLE WITH THE GREAT BLACK*STAR?"

"Ooh! Me me me!" Liz's sister proclaimed, launching her hand into the air like they were back in the third grade and bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly.

"ANY OTHER VOLUNTEERS?"

Dead silence and unamused stares were his only reply, but he didn't seem to mind, grinning good-naturedly at them all.

"We'll pass this time, Black*Star," Tsubaki said kindly after a moment.

"ALRIGHT, MORE DANCE FLOOR FOR ME, THEN!" he proclaimed, grabbing his pretty companion's hand and dragging her off in the direction of the open space at the back of the bar.

Soul stuck his pinkie finger in his ear and wiggled it around a bit, trying to determine if his hearing was permanently damaged. Blue Hair had been standing painfully close to him with that loud mouth of his.

"That," Maka said dryly, "was Black*Star."

"I gathered," Soul said. "Who exactly _is_ Black*Star?"

"He's the other hip-hop teacher," Jackie explained.

"He's not actually as good as Kilik—" Kim added.

Kilik grinned. "Why thank you, Kim."

"—but since he literally never shuts up about how awesome he is, Marie took pity on him and lets him teach the advanced classes."

"Just never let him hear you say that," Maka whispered to him. The laughter in her voice brought a grin to his lips, and her breath on his ear brought goosebumps to his skin, and just like that he was back in Smitten La-La Land again.

Soul tuned out of the conversation, hazily watching as Black*Star did an unusually athletic version of the worm while the blonde danced behind him, doing what he thought might be an extremely misplaced stanky leg, not really taking in what he was seeing (which was probably a good thing). He was too busy daydreaming to focus on much going on outside his head. He was especially pleased with the idea that if he had the balls to ask Maka out, she might not reject him on the spot.

He was aware that all his fluttery feelings were only destined to make him unhappy. Sometimes he thought maybe Maka was flirting with him, but then he remembered that she was a naturally friendly person. Not to mention there was no way he was her type. She wouldn't go for an awkward, ambitionless black sheep. Maka would probably be into a really put-together guy, the kind of guy who would play soccer or lacrosse recreationally, and drink vodka martinis, a guy like—

"Kit!" Maka exclaimed, right next to his ear. She bounced in her seat, and he wisely slid aside so that she could squeeze out. He watched in mild horror as she flung herself at the tall, pale young man who had approached the table. He was slim and handsome, with odd concentric circles bleached into his shiny black hair, and he wore a casual black sports jacket. He looked _very_ put-together.

 _Fuck._

"When did you get back in town?" Maka asked the newcomer after a brief hug.

"Just tonight. Liz informed me that you all would be gathering here."

She gave him a look that managed to be both fond and accusatory. "I seem to remember you saying you'd only be in Nevada for a week. That was a _month_ ago."

The dark-haired man shook his head. "I am sorry, Maka. Resolving the situation took much longer than my father had lead me to believe before I flew out."

Maka grimaced. "Right. About that… how is your brother, anyway?"

"The same as always," he said resignedly. "His parole officer is at his wits' end this time. I swear, one of these days he's going to give our father a heart attack."

Maka thumped his shoulder sympathetically. Then she turned back to the table where the rest of the group was sitting. "Kit's here, everybody!"

"We hadn't noticed," Liz deadpanned.

Her good mood not dampened in the slightest, Maka said, "Kit, this is Soul, our new pianist." She gestured grandly in Soul's direction.

He nodded courteously, extending his hand for Soul to shake.

"Soul, this is Darby Thelonious Kristopher."

" _Kit_ ," the other man said, in a tone as firm as his handshake. "Kit Mortimer." Shooting a dirty look at Maka as he released Soul's hand, he added, "Must you always tell people my full name?"

Maka assumed an expression so naïve it couldn't help but arouse suspicion. "It's my duty as one of the only people who actually knows your name," she said primly.

He shook his head with a heavy sigh. "You are not one of the only people who knows my name," he said, "because you have told absolutely everyone about it."

Maka giggled. Soul felt a little bit sick.

He might have left then, except that Maka immediately plopped down beside him again and scooched him over so he was sitting more in Ox's personal space than he was necessarily comfortable with. Kit slid into the seat to Maka's left, and regular conversation resumed.

Despite the fact that for a solid five minutes the topic under discussion was Kit's month-long absence and how he had sorted out his delinquent older brother's latest run-in with the law, Soul found himself reluctantly enjoying the company. It wouldn't kill him, he supposed, to socialize a little more than usual. After the "I'm proud of you for finding a job you're comfortable with (but also Mom and Dad will never forgive you)" speech he'd gotten from Wes earlier, spending some time with people who could be both well-meaning _and_ non-judgmental at the same time was probably good for him.

Besides, it was interesting to see Maka and her friends outside of work. Kim was much calmer than she seemed in the studio, while Jackie, conversely, was much more uptight. He discovered that Tsubaki had a filthy mind and someone (probably her girlfriend, based on what he had observed so far of Liz) had taught her the high fine art of "your mom" jokes.

Even Kit, he had to admit, was a pretty cool guy. He was the son of some big business tycoon, so on top of being man-pretty, cultured, and smart, he was loaded, too. Well, technically, so was Soul, but since he had never so much as touched his trust fund, he wasn't sure it counted. Either way, he was easy to be around and his thoughtful conversation was a blessed distraction from the sound of Black*Star screaming "TURN DOWN FOR WHAT!" All things considered, it turned out to be a decent evening.

After two perfect mojitos and a much less satisfying beer, though, he was starting to get a headache, whether from the alcohol (likely) or from Black*Star's ongoing display of his terrible taste in music (also likely), and his store of social energy was running dangerously low. He was contemplating bailing when, of course, things got decidedly worse.

A not-terrible song finally hit the jukebox, and just as he was breathing a sigh of relief, Maka clapped excitedly and said, "I love this song!"

Soul contemplated the idea of asking her to dance, immediately chickened out, and regretted it enormously when Kit turned to her and said, with an amused tilt of his eyebrow, "I believe it has been far too long since we've danced together."

"I think you are entirely right," she said with a grin, and followed Kit out of the booth before heading out to join Black*Star and Liz's sister out on the dance floor.

He stared after them for a minute, but when she took Kit's hand, he decided he had absolutely seen more than enough. Wrenching his eyes away from their interlocked fingers, he glanced back at the rest of the table, hoping none of them had noticed his heart getting strangled by his intestines. It looked like everyone was still caught up in laughing and group chatter, and he breathed a sigh of relief that his eternally bored expression seemed to have saved him once again.

Or maybe not, because Jackie caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic smile. _Crap_. The only thing worse than crushing hard on someone who was so far out of his league she was playing a different sport entirely was feeling all that and then having somebody pity him for it.

"I think I'm gonna head out," he mumbled. Perfunctory goodbyes were exchanged all around, and then he made a beeline for the door, feeling uncomfortably like a puppy with his tail between his legs.

* * *

The first time Soul didn't wait to walk downstairs with her, Maka assumed he had somewhere else to be. When it happened again the next day, she figured it was an unfortunate coincidence. By the third day, she was getting concerned, and by the fourth, she had also noticed that he wasn't talking to her normally, either. No more sarcastic comments, no more ironic eyebrow, just a nod or an "okay" when she asked him to take it from the top. He wasn't rude or unpleasant to be around… just quiet. And avoiding her. He clearly had a bee up his butt about _something_ , but she couldn't figure out what.

It took her another three days to find the root of the problem. A muggy Monday in the studio had crawled by, as she wrangled teenagers dreading the return to school and younger kids who couldn't focus in the heat, and Soul complained intermittently about how the humidity was messing with his instrument. The very last thing Maka wanted to do after the day she'd had and the way he'd been acting was to ask him for a favor, but she didn't have much choice. Kit's free time was very limited these days, and if they were going to practice, it had to be arranged around his schedule.

And so…

"Hey, Soul?"

He grunted and didn't look up, but his hands froze in the act of stuffing his books back in his satchel.

"Would you mind staying for an extra half-hour or so tomorrow?" she asked.

He looked up, a very blank expression on his face.

"I know it's not part of your job, but I have a private practice with Kit scheduled, and having you play would be so much better than working with the old stereo."

Soul's expression didn't change. "Practice with Kit, huh?"

She nodded, unsure what to make of his look.

After a long pause, he said, "You got sheet music for me?"

She hurried over and opened up the old record cabinet that stood near the door and retrieved a little paper-bound sheaf of music, going yellow around the edges and dog-eared at the corners. She handed it to him and watched anxiously as he looked it over, flipping through the few pages of staff paper.

One pale eyebrow lifted, but he made no comment on the music itself. After a minute or two of looking it over, tapping his finger against the page as he caught the rhythm of the piece, he looked up at her.

"Didn't realize you and Kit danced together," he remarked.

Her brow furrowed up in confusion. "Of course we do, he's my dance partner."

For a second, Soul looked absolutely nonplussed. He shut down his expression back into that calculated neutral that was pretty standard for him, but she couldn't miss the few seconds of bewilderment. "Your… _dance_ partner?"

"Of course, how did you _think_ we knew each other?" she asked.

"I, uh…" He scratched nervously at his cheek, avoiding her eyes. "I figured he was your boyfriend?"

It was cute how his voice squeaked a little on the word 'boyfriend.' She giggled. "No way, Kit's been my dance partner since we were little. Like ice-skating partners, you know? By the time we were out of high school, Kit knew he wasn't going to be dancing professionally. He had a branch of his father's company waiting for him, and he liked that kind of work, but he still wanted to keep dancing as a hobby, so we stayed partners."

"Huh," Soul said. "So you're, uh, not dating at all then?"

She snorted. "Hardly. Kit's so asexual, boners whither in his presence."

Soul made a face at that, but he kept pressing the issue. "But you'd be interested if he wasn't, you know, _not_ interested in that?"

Maka shook her head. "We grew up together, it's really not like that."

"Oh."

He looked helplessly flustered by the whole conversation, so Maka took pity on him and steered the subject back to neutral ground. "So will you be able to stay tomorrow?" she asked.

Soul nodded. "Got nothing better to do," he said, the casual phrasing quite at odds with the sun-bright grin bursting across his face.

It was good to see him so cheerful all of a sudden. An inkling of the reason for his sudden change of mood was occurring to her, but before she got around to what could (and she really hoped _would_ ) potentially turn into a more significant conversation, there was something else she wanted to bring up, now that he wasn't avoiding her eyes and rushing out of the room before she could get a word in.

"And while I'm asking favors," she added, "I was wondering. I have an— an audition on Saturday, and my car's gonna be in the shop. Do you think you could give me a lift?"

Soul shrugged. "Sure, so long as you don't have a problem with motorcycles."

"You drive a motorcycle?"

"I could afford that or a shitty station wagon, and there was no way I was gonna drive a car that uncool."

She snorted. "You're a dork. So you'll drive me?"

He nodded. "Gives me a great reason to turn down my parents' invitation to brunch."

"Thank you, Soul, I really appreciate it," she said sincerely, giving him a pretty sunshiney grin of her own.

There was a beat or two of silence as they made eye contact. The way he pinked up and glanced away after a few moments was telling, and Maka grinned. "Soooooo," she said, the smile showing through her voice. "You thought Kit and I were dating, huh?"

"Shut up," he muttered, hiding behind his bangs. "What else was I supposed to think?"

"Is that why you've been avoiding me all week?"

"Who said I was avoiding you?"

He was still blushing and failing to hide it, and Maka could not find his awkwardness anything but adorable. "Were you jealous?" she teased, drawing out the syllables for maximum embarrassment.

Soul managed to look her in the eye, recovering his equilibrium. "I'd think a nerdy girl like you would know better, Maka," he said, and it was his turn to sound teasing. " _Jealousy_ is when you're possessive over something you already have. _Envy_ is when you covet something someone else has." He gave her a supremely cocksure grin, snatched up the strap of his bag, and attempted to make a smooth exit from the studio, an effect that was ruined somewhat by the fact that he tripped over the rug in the entryway.

Maka stared after him, utterly baffled by the way he had managed to completely turn the tables on her. She'd had him right where she wanted him, and somehow he'd managed to wriggle out of her hands anyway. This boy was going to be the death of her.

"You infuriating asshole!" she shouted to the empty studio, kicking her duffel bag in sheer frustration.

* * *

Auditions were always stressful, but Maka had gone through enough of them that she wasn't the pressure didn't weigh on her too much. No, she actually felt rather calm. She'd been working toward this for months, and now the day was finally here.

The hallway outside the theater doors was chilly; the air conditioning was set too high, even for this time of summer. There was a cluster of young men and women waiting on the carpet, standing or stretching. They alternated between watching the closed door and eyeing each other skeptically.

It was a familiar look to Maka, but one she hadn't seen in a long time. Aside from perhaps voice majors, collegiate-level dance students were the most judgmental and competitive group of people Maka could imagine. It was normal to weigh your rivals, size them up and figure out how much of a threat they were. Even in a situation like this, where there wasn't _actually_ any true competitive element to the audition (because after all, the DC Conservatory For the Fine Arts didn't limit the number of students they would accept, provided they met the program's notoriously rigorous standards) there was a sort of jealousy over their art.

 _There's no way_ she _cares as much about dance as_ I _do… Really? You're wearing that?... Who is he kidding with posture like that?_

And Maka was receiving her fair share of scrutiny, or rather more. Even with her eternal babyface, she was obviously nearly a decade older than this little covey of prospective freshmen.

At that moment, Abadjiev, Naim emerged through the double door, which thumped loudly closed behind him, tap shoes in hand, sweaty and sagging, but looking entirely satisfied.

A woman with a clipboard followed him out. "Albarn, Maka?" she called. "You're up."

She rose from the bench, squared her shoulders, and strode forth to meet her destiny.

She entered the theater and toed off her sandals, replacing them with her canvas jazz shoes as quickly as she could. Once she was properly shod, she walked up the stage wings, handing the sheet music she'd brought to the pianist, who immediately began skimming over the pages, her foot lightly tapping out the rhythm.

"It's a little faster than that," Maka whispered.

The pianist nodded, and gave her an encouraging smile.

This done, Maka stepped out onto the stage proper, strode to the middle of the floor, and faced the judges of her fate.

She recognized one of them. Sid Barrett, who had been her coach during her abbreviated time here years ago, gave her a wink when he caught her eye. The other five, however, were unknown to her. Her eyes were caught first by the man at the end of their row, with a scarred face and hair gone prematurely grey, who seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. In the middle, sitting next to Sid, was a young-ish woman perhaps seven or eight years older than Maka. She wore her blonde hair bobbed short, and Maka had never been fond of tattoos, but the serpentine ink decorating the woman's arms up to the shoulder was amazing.

"Maka Albarn, correct?" she asked.

Maka nodded.

"Will you be performing your own choreography today?"

"No, my choreographer is my teacher, Marie Mjolnir," Maka said.

The silver-haired man with the scars shifted suddenly in his seat, leaning forward attentively.

The severe woman, however, was looking at her with active skepticism, and Maka felt her nerves— which up until then had been warm with anticipation of a top notch performance— fizzed into something that really felt like fear. There were differing schools of thought as to whether a gift for choreography was really necessary for a dancer, but the DCCFFA program had always emphasized that it wasn't fundamentally necessary.

Or at least… it had when she'd last studied here. But clearly several of the professors she remembered fondly had retired or moved elsewhere, and if the newer staff held different views…

It wasn't as though Maka was an abysmal choreographer. She did well enough with routines for her classes. For really important work of her own, however, it had always seemed wiser to follow Marie's guidance. At the moment, however, she was uncomfortably certain it was a black mark against her.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know before I begin?" she asked.

"No," the woman said. "We'll save any further questions for after your routine."

Maka nodded, made brief eye contact with the pianist, and knelt down in her starting position.

She had to hand it to Marie, the choreography she'd put together was excellent. It took full advantage of Maka's natural athleticism. Her energy and her flexibility were second to none, and the complexity of the routine was designed to highlight every last one of Maka's strengths.

Still, she could feel the strain, muscles that she'd thought were in fine shape protesting that she hadn't practiced nearly as much as she thought. Her breathing grew heavy and it became difficult to make her performance look effortless, but she dug down deep and found that well of strength within her. She might be less active as a performer lately, but she still had the will to power through something as simple as an audition, dammit.

When she was finished, she stood on the stage, arms uplifted and eyes closed. The heavy light from the catwalk beat down on her, turning the inside of her eyelids to burning red and drawing sweat from every pore on her body.

"Thank you," the blonde woman said. "Now, Ms. Albarn, it says on your application that you've been studying since age four, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's see… performed with the DC Youth Ballet throughout high school… current teacher at a local dance academy… attended this conservatory for two and a half semesters… _in 2007?_ " Her abstracted tone as she skimmed Maka's application shifted to one of astonishment, and not the good kind. She looked up sharply, and the ferocity of her gaze made Maka feel as if the older woman had drawn a bead on her.

"Ms. Albarn, how old are you?"

There it was, the question she'd kind of hoped wouldn't come up. "I turn twenty-eight in April," she said, head held high as she stared her judges straight in the eyes.

"Twenty-eight," another unremarkable member of the quintet of judges said, giving a low whistle, "and you're applying for a dance _performance_ major? Are you sure you didn't mean dance _education_?"

"Entirely sure," she said firmly, trying not to notice how hard the scarred man at the end of the row was staring at her, as if he were trying to see through her skin to her soul.

Sid was giving her a sympathetic look, and Scarface was still staring, but the other three panel members were giving each other a variety of looks that made Maka even more nervous than she had been.

"Alright then, I think that's all we need to see at present," the woman said briskly. "The technique class portion of the audition will begin at three, next door in the Adelaide Building, room 042."

Maka nodded mutely and walked off the stage, robotically taking the sheet music the pianist held out to her. She changed her shoes again and slipped out the door just as the woman with the clipboard called in Boyd, Hannah.

She walked back to her bench and dropped onto it heavily. She knew she should probably be stretching out her muscles, but she needed to process.

Maka had never received that kind of response to a performance before. It was true that she was very old to be considering starting— or rather, resuming— a career as a professional dancer, but she was damn good, and her work spoke for itself… didn't it?

The excited buzz she had been feeling earlier was dissipating into a staticky, distant sort of homesickness. She had really thought she had this fresh start in the bag, that the audition was just a formality! After all, even when she was caring for her grandparents and only teaching part-time, she had kept her skills sharp with constant practice, involvement in amateur theater, and of course working with Kit whenever he could spare the time. Logically speaking, she should still be as good as she had been eight years earlier, when she had been a rising star in this very school… or at least, not very much worse!

Was her age really _that_ much of an issue? Or was it her unoriginal choreography? Or both?

The next hour passed in a blur, as names were called, and one by one the flock of disgustingly young kids, barely out of high school, emerged victorious from the theater. At last, though, it was a quarter to three, and she was able to haul herself to her feet and down the sidewalk to the neighboring building.

She barely remembered, afterward, how the technique class went. She was on autopilot, relying on over two decades' worth of muscle memory to carry her through the barre exercises and floor work. Her mind was too busy trying not to panic to deal with anything else.

It was only as she was shuffling down the concrete steps at the rear of the building that something happened to break through her daze.

The man with the scars who had been one of her auditioners stepped out from behind the corner of the building, his glasses flashing in the afternoon sun. She startled a little, he had emerged so close to her.

"Ms. Albarn," he said. "I hoped I'd catch you before you left."

"O-oh?"

"Dr. Frank Stein," he said, reaching out to shake her hand. She reciprocated the gesture automatically. "I'm the director of the dance therapy program.

She tried to process this. "I didn't know there was a dance therapy program at DCCFFA."

"There wasn't until a few years ago," he said smugly.

"Oh." She couldn't dredge up anything else to say.

He gave her a wry look. "Not very talkative today, I see. Well, that's not surprising. I thought you might like to know you've been waitlisted."

Maka took a few deep breaths to try to settle her racing heart, in the hopes of hearing something besides her pulse pounding in her ears. "Meaning…?"

"Meaning that's the admission board's polite way of telling you to piss off."

Her stomach bottomed out and she swore under her breath. What the hell was she supposed to do now? If she couldn't get back into this school, where she already had a history and had proven herself capable, did she really have a chance anywhere else?

"However," Dr. Stein continued, "I may be able to help with that."

Maka looked up keenly at him. "What do you mean?" she asked warily. "And why?"

He grinned. "I carry a lot of weight around here. There's not much I can do about the fall term, but when the spring semester comes around, I can put a word in the dean's ear about you. And as for why…" His grin grew ever so slightly manic. "I enjoy sticking it to Medusa Gorgon. I find her reactions amusing. But if you'd prefer to attribute it to more altruistic motives, consider it a favor to my wife."

"Your wi—?" The penny dropped. "Wait, Dr. _Stein_? You're Marie's husband?"

"I am indeed."

"Wow," Maka said, really feeling revitalized now. "I feel like I just found a unicorn or something. Half my coworkers think Marie made you up."

He snickered. "And by 'half your coworkers' you mean Kim Diehl, am I correct?"

Despite her current mood, Maka found herself fighting a smile. "I plead the fifth."

"Wise of you."

"So," Maka said, steering the conversation back on topic because she was still unable to believe her luck, "you're going to get me in?"

Dr. Stein held up one finger. "Conditionally. Watching you, it's glaringly obvious that you spend more time teaching than you do practicing yourself."

Reluctantly, Maka nodded. "Lately, there just hasn't been enough—"

"Enough time? That's an excuse and you know it. I know for a fact that you have two hours off between your classes three days a week, and I also know you spend most of that time in my wife's office, chatting with her about god only knows what."

Unfortunately, what he said was all too true.

"I don't want to see Maka the teacher," he said. "I want to see Maka the _dancer_."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

The professor stuffed his hands in the pockets of his slacks, rocking up on the balls of his feet momentarily as he grinned at her. "There's a senior and staff recital at the end of November. Show me what you can really do. Impress me, and I'll light a fire under the admissions board for you."

Maka nodded. "I won't disappoint you," she promised recklessly.

"I hope so," he said, and then, with only a backward wave of his hand in parting, he turned on his heel and ambled away.

Left staring in his wake, Maka's head was brimming with ideas and conflicting emotions. The one that eventually fell out of her mouth was: "What the hell does she _see_ in that guy?"

.

"How'd it go?" Soul asked a few minutes later as Maka swung a leg over his bike.

She didn't respond immediately, preferring to focus on adjusting the backpack in which she was carrying her shoes, tights, and leotard. Once her belongings were secure, she tried to do the same for herself— she wrapped her arms around Soul's waist, and rested her forehead against his warm back.

"Maka?"

She sighed, and settled in more snugly against him. "I don't know," she said. "I really don't know."


	2. Chapter 2

The following Tuesday found Maka seated once again in Marie's office between classes. However, their chatter had nothing to do with idle gossip, and everything to do with the delicate thread on which her future was suddenly hanging. Marie was savoring a cup of coffee, and Maka had accepted a mug out of politeness, but it was currently cooling on the desk; she had no idea how Marie could stand to drink coffee in this heat.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was auditioning," Maka said. "I didn't want anybody to know and then pity me if I got rejected."

Marie waved her off with a smile. "Nonsense. Every girl has the right to a secret or two!"

Maka nodded, but looked down at her lap where her fingers were tapping rapid-fire against her thighs. "Still, it felt weird not sharing it with you."

"That's understandable," she said. "Now, did you do your own choreography?"

"No. I went with the jazz routine we designed for the Christmas program two years ago."

Marie nodded, sipping at her coffee. "That was a wonderful choice, Maka!"

"I thought it would be better to stick with something I knew already rather than risking something new that I couldn't even run past you before I gambled on it," Maka explained.

Marie nodded. "Understandable."

She sighed, and looked down again. "I guess it didn't really pay off, though. If it weren't for Dr. Stein, I'd be screwed."

"I doubt that. There's always next year, after all."

Maka shook her head. "No, the big issue they had with me was how old I am, and I'm only going to get older. If I'm going to do this, I have to do it now."

Marie frowned thoughtfully. "You may be right, you are getting on in years to be starting a professional career. Still, I would think those old windbags at DCCFFA would take into account talent alone. It's pure foolishness to ignore how gifted you are, Maka."

"Well, they did, and my only chance now is giving a great performance this November. How do I do that?" she asked. "How can I prove that I'm worth taking a chance on? I mean… Marie, he's your husband, right? What do I do to impress him?"

Setting aside her cup and saucer with a soft clink of china, Marie leaned her chin on her palm, staring up at the ceiling as she pondered this.

"Well, that's a tricky question, because Frank has a bit of an unorthodox approach to performance. He was a late bloomer too, you know." She smiled fondly, eyes going soft as she rubbed absently at her wedding band. "He earned his medical degree by the time he was twenty—"

"That doesn't sound like a late bloomer to me," Maka said skeptically.

Marie gave her what she probably thought was an annoyed look for the interruption, but it mostly just came across as mild amusement. "Yes, but once he had become a doctor, he decided he wanted to return to dancing. That was how we met, actually. I was volunteering with a community theater group, he was getting some amateur performance experience…" She had that dreamy look in her eyes again.

It was sweet to hear Marie's recounting of her love story, and at any other time Maka would have been starry-eyed and delighted to hear every word, but right now, she was too wound up to really appreciate it. "So is that why he gave me a chance, then?" she pressed. "Because he was in the same position once?"

"I suppose it must be," Marie said. She shook herself, focusing back on Maka after a few moments. "Oh, but you were wanting to know how to impress him. Well, obviously you'll need to polish up your technique. That goes without saying. Don't allow yourself to feel any inhibitions."

"No inhibitions, right." She could do that, right? It was basically just a matter of shedding fear and letting yourself get lost in the art. "What else?"

"Above all, I would say not to let down your guard on your duet with Kit."

That was surprising. "Oh?" she asked.

Marie nodded firmly. "Your solo is important, of course. You have to be able to hold your own. But partner dance is also critically important to any performance career, and despite how he seems, Frank values partner dance enormously. _He_ would probably say it was just technical appreciation, but _I_ think it's his sentimentality showing through."

Privately, Maka was doubtful that the blunt, clinical man she'd met had much room for sentimentality, but Marie of course knew him better, so she set aside her skepticism. "Alright, so technique, lose my inhibitions, and focus on perfecting my duet."

Marie nodded firmly. "Just your solo _might_ be enough to impress him, but I wouldn't gamble on it. He has high standards."

If Frank Stein had high standards, Maka thought, then clearly the rest of the DCCFFA admissions board must have impossible ones.

* * *

Soul was having a minor meltdown over whether or not lighting candles was appropriate. On the one hand, with candles lit, they could have the lights off for movie night without risking death by stubbed toes. But on the other hand, candles sort of automatically set a romantic mood, and he wasn't sure if that was okay. _He_ was fine with that, but he wasn't sure if Maka would be. As far as he knew, she could be viewing this impromptu Netflix-and-takeout evening as a purely platonic friend thing.

Which was fine, right? Being her friend was good— _great_ , even. Wes was always telling him he should make more friends, because he "couldn't have only Harvar as a friend for the rest of his life," apparently. So being friends should be fine. He'd only known Maka for a few months, but he could already tell she was a fantastic friend to everybody she cared about, and if that eventually came to include him, then he would be damn lucky.

Problem with that, though, was that he also really really _really_ wanted to take her out on dates and snuggle with her on the couch on rainy days and violently make out with her in the back of his car like a couple of horny teenagers and _whoa, slow down buddy, she probably doesn't even like you like that_.

So, back to his current problem, then. Was a casual movie might-be-a-date candle worthy? Or would Maka be weirded out if she came over for a Very Platonic Friendly Evening Of Friendship and he had candles lit all over the place like a slightly less creepy version of the Phantom of the Opera, complete with baby grand in the corner of the living room? He didn't want to make her uncomfortable, but his apartment looked nice by candlelight, and anyway he was never going to get anywhere if he didn't at least _try_ to show her how he felt, and candles would be a subtle way to set a mood, a nice slow start so he could build up to the scary stuff, definitely more subtle than trying to grope her without finding out if she even—

The knock at the door interrupted his train of thought and he jumped.

Shit. No more time to decide, then. Impulsively, he lit the cinnamon jar candle sitting in the center of the coffee table, threw the lighter behind the couch, and scrambled for the door.

As he grabbed the door handle, he realized belatedly that maybe it would have been a good idea to shove his ginormous stack of shoes into the closet instead of leaving them lying around by the door. Well, there went his opportunity to impress Maka with his ability to make his house look like an actual grown-ass adult lived there.

When he opened the door, she was standing there with a white plastic sack with a little yellow happy face on it in her hands and a smile to match.

"Hi!" she chirped, and his heart did a funny little thing that in any other situation he would have assumed meant he should probably go to the emergency room. Seriously, how the hell could she be so adorable in a floppy sweater and messy pigtails? Then again, the answer to _that_ question was kind of self-evident, but still. _Christ_ , he'd only known this girl for four months and he was having heart palpitations at the sight of her?

His life was morphing into a disgustingly cliche pop ballad.

"Um… Soul?"

"Huh?"

She was looking at him like she thought he might be a little funny in the head. "Are you okay? You kinda spaced there."

He blinked. _Shit_. "Yeah, fine. Just… have some stuff on my mind."

"If you say so. Can I come in?"

"Oh. Shit. Yeah." He stepped back and let her pass, shutting the door behind her. While he was still kicking himself for being an awkward human shitstain, she found her way to the kitchen and started unpacking the carry-out boxes.

"You know, you didn't have to bring food," he said. "We could have gotten delivery."

She shrugged. "I live two doors down from a pretty good Chinese place, it was quicker just to stop. I brought a variety, since I wasn't sure what you like."

"I'll eat pretty much anything, honestly. I'm not too pic— _is that shrimp with lobster sauce?_ "

That sunshine grin that made his knees go all wobbly appeared on her face. "You said you liked seafood, so I took a calculated risk."

"You are the best ever," he said reverently, and just about fell over at how much brighter her smile grew at that.

"I'm really glad you suggested this," she said as they divvied up the egg rolls and fried rice. "I didn't even realize how much I needed a break until you invited me over."

He nodded. "I noticed you've been practically living at the studio this entire month," he said, and he wasn't really fishing for information except he kind of was. Something was going on with her, and he was _disgustingly_ hopeful that maybe she'd choose to confide in him.

No such luck, though. She suddenly became very involved in scooping sweet and sour chicken over her rice, avoiding his eyes. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little over-enthusiastic about the recital at the end of November."

"The senior and staff holiday recital, right?"

She nodded. "Is Marie going to have you play?"

"Yeah. Since the auditorium at Centerfield is old as shit and doesn't have an actual sound system, she's giving me double time and a half to be there."

It was kind of ridiculous how happy it made him when she said, "That's good. I've gotten used to dancing to your music. It'd be a shame to have to go back to a crappy stereo."

 _This crush was going to kill him._

Once they had filled their plates with the variety of sauce-smothered entrees Maka had brought with her, he pointed her in the direction of the living room, and they settled down together on the couch.

"I thought I smelled cinnamon," Maka commented, nodding at the cheerfully-burning candle on the coffee table. "You don't see a lot of guys our age lighting candles in their house."

He would not blush he would not blush _he would not blush_. "Yeah, well. It's good to have them if the power goes out."

She giggled. "Say what you want, Soul, but I think you just like having a pretty candle that makes your house smell nice."

There went the no-blushing plan. The fact that she was right just made it worse. "Think what you want," he muttered. "Can you just pick a movie already?"

She still had that disgustingly smug little smirk on her face that made him want to kiss her until she was too dizzy to laugh at him anymore, but to his relief, she left it alone. "How about Men In Black?" she suggested

"Never seen it," he said, and popped a chunk of pineapple from the sweet and sour chicken in his mouth.

Maka's eyes went wide with disbelief. "You've never seen Men In Black?" she asked. "How is that possible?"

He swallowed the pineapple and shrugged. "Just never got around to it."

"Well, that's it then, we're watching that, because you can never be a true movie buff until you've seen Men In Black."

"Who says I even want to be a movie buff?" Soul grumbled, but Maka, who had taken the remote hostage and was happily scrolling through the on-demand screens in search of the action listings, either didn't hear or didn't care. Oh well. It was a token protest anyway; he'd heard the MIB films were pretty good.

Once Maka finally found the movie she was looking for, she clicked the purchase button and flopped back on the couch. She munched on an eggroll as the Columbia Pictures fanfare played, but after a few moments and half the eggroll, she looked over at him.

"Your place is nice, by the way," she said. "I didn't realize Marie paid you enough to afford a place like this."

She didn't. He was leaching the interest off his trust fund to make up the rent difference, but at least it was money that was rightfully his, inheritance from his grandparents, and not borrowed from his parents. Besides, like _hell_ was he living in the kind of shithole that was all he could have afforded on the pittance Marie paid him.

But Maka was waiting on a response from him. "I, uh, have other income."

"From where?" she asked. "Another job?"

"Uh, sort of?" If you counted being the family disappointment as a job, anyway.

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you sell drugs or something?"

"What?! No!"

"Sounds like something a drug dealer would say."

He was definitely kind of maybe panicking a little bit. Somewhat. Slightly. She might just be teasing him, but if she wasn't… If he lost his chance with the girl of his dreams because she thought he was selling speed to teenagers, he was going to have to drown himself in his bathtub because at that point he would just be too pathetic to live. _Okay, Soul, be cool. Talk her down with logic._

"Seriously, Maka, an albino guy peddling crack? That's gotta be the least-inconspicuous thing ever. I'd be begging for a search warrant," he said, and he almost managed to keep his voice from squeaking.

"Wait, so you actually are albino? I couldn't tell if this—" She waved a hand in his general direction. "—was some kind of new wave scene kid thing or not."

He was pretty sure he should be offended. "Nope. 100% all-natural freak genes."

She frowned at him. "Don't say that, you're cute. The albino thing just adds some color. Metaphorically speaking, of course," she added with a wink.

Soul's brain pretty much shorted out at the words _you're cute_ , and if you asked him later, he'd have to confess that he still hadn't really seen Men In Black, because he spent the entire rest of the movie in a happy daze.

* * *

Maka was just fastening the straps on her shiny black character shoes when she heard the distinct clearing of a throat. She looked up from her seat and, seeing Kit standing a few feet away, gave him a broad smile.

"Hey, Kit!" she said. "I'm glad you're here early, we really need to... to… Kit? Is everything alright?" The smile slid off her face as she got a closer look at her partner's expression; the grim set of his mouth and his troubled eyes made her nervous.

He shook his head slowly. "No, I'm afraid not," he said. "Maka… my dad is sick. Really sick."

"Oh god, Kit," she breathed. "What's— I mean, is he—?"

"I don't know. The doctors don't—" He swallowed hard. "He collapsed last night. His secretary found him and…" He sighed, wringing his hands distractedly. "Something with his heart, they think, but they have to run more tests. Azusa wasn't very clear. Maka, I need to go to him. I have a flight back to Nevada tonight."

"When will you be back?" Maka asked, and immediately afterwards wanted to go back in time and staple her mouth shut.

He looked at her, still with that lost look in his eyes. "I don't know. Someone's going to have to run the company until he— until he recovers." She didn't miss the trip of his tongue, that uncertainty, that question of whether there would even _be_ a recovery, and it made her hate herself just a little bit more for the selfish thoughts she was having.

"You won't be back in time, right?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. But I just can't… Maka, you understand, right?" he asked pleadingly, looking so helpless and desperate it broke her heart. And she _did_ understand, which somehow made it worse.

"Of course. Your family has to come first," she said, and was relieved to know that she meant it. How could she not? She'd been in the same situation not so long ago, and she might be selfish, but she wasn't short on empathy.

Kit nodded. "Thank you, Maka. I'm so sorry to leave you in the lurch, but—"

He broke off sharply, and she suspected that he didn't want her to hear the waver in his voice. Kit was like that. He felt things deeply, but he preferred to express his feelings verbally rather than through emotional displays. She gave him a watered-down smile and opened her arms slightly, inviting a hug.

He dove into her arms fast enough that it surprised her. He clutched her around the shoulders, holding on tight. She hugged him back a little awkwardly, since he was more or less pinning her arms to her side with how tightly he was holding onto her.

"It's okay," she said, patting his back lightly. "I get it. Take care of your dad, it's more important."

Kit nodded against her shoulder, then stepped back, taking a deep, cleansing breath. He squared his narrow shoulders and raised his head. "I'll keep you posted, if I think I might be back in time—"

She shook her head. "No, no, don't worry about me. It's just a recital, right?" The words burned in her throat.

He gave her a skeptical look, like he knew she had no backup plan and was just saying it to make him feel better. If that was what he was thinking, he was entirely correct, but that was a shitty thing to actually say to somebody whose dad was sick, maybe dying.

"Go home, Kit," she said. "You still need to pack, right? That'll take you awhile, I know you're really particular about getting that right."

He gave a single bark of laughter, and looked a little caught off guard by it, as if surprised that he currently had the capacity to laugh. "Thank you for understanding," he said. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks, Kit."

Maka watched him turn, and followed him with her eyes as he left the studio floor. She watched the silk curtain that separated the changing rooms from the practice space flutter back down into place behind him, holding her breath as she heard the door shut— softly, carefully— and the rhythmic sound of Kit's light tread on the squeaky stairs.

It was only once she heard the jingle of the bell that hung inside the street front door that she buried her face in her hands and let out a scream of frustration that she barely bothered to muffle into the over-long sleeves of her sweater. She slumped back against the mirror, not caring that she was probably smearing it, and slid down onto the floor.

 _This is it_ , she thought numbly. _This is the end of it all._

It was the end of her dream, for real this time. She still had her solo dance, of course, but Dr. Stein wasn't going to put a bug in the admissions board's ear just for proving she could dance well on her own. She'd already proven that much. She needed to prove she could work with a partner, too. Marie had said so.

She leaned her head back against the mirror with a thunk, staring up at the copper-green ceiling blankly, her wrists resting limply on her folded knees, just breathing and trying not to think.

Maka wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there when another set of footsteps intruded on her silence.

"Hey, sorry I'm late, I got a little caught up in… traffic? Um… Maka? Are you okay?"

She looked up at Soul, who had his music bag over his shoulder, looking at her with curious concern.

"Not really," she said. "Kit's dad is sick, he's gotta go out of state to… to deal with family stuff, and…"

"And he's not gonna be back in time, is he?" Soul guessed, staring down at her with that perfectly neutral expression she was too familiar with.

Maka nodded. "I feel so selfish, thinking about that when he's got such serious stuff going on. What kind of horrible person worries about their own problems in a situation like this? He was _apologizing_ to me and I—"

"Hey, stop, it's not selfish!" he interrupted, plopping down on the floor beside her, just close enough that his thigh brushed hers. "You're allowed to feel bad, you know? You were looking forward to this recital."

"It's not just that," she mumbled. "My entire future was hanging on how this recital goes."

He stared at her. "Huh?"

"I didn't want to tell anybody in case nothing came of it, but you remember how I auditioned to get back into the conservatory back in September?"

Soul nodded.

"Well, I didn't get in. But Marie's husband is a professor there so he knew we had this recital coming up and he, um, said that if I could impress him next month he'd get the admissions board to reconsider my application."

"Whoa."

"Yeah," Maka said bitterly, "it was nice of him. But without a partner, my ballroom set's going to have to be taken off the program, and with only my solo there's no way I'll be able to…" She sighed and left it hanging. Soul would get the picture. He was good at reading between the lines.

There was a moment of silence, and then Soul said the last thing she would have ever expected to hear from him: "You know, I… uh… I used to take ballroom dance lessons."

She whipped around, staring at him with wide green eyes. "You _what?_ "

He rolled his shoulders awkwardly, avoiding her eyes by staring at his lap. "My family's kind of… well, they've got a lot of money, and when I was growing up I was kinda raised into that. A _gentleman's education_ , they called it." Even without the eye roll, Maka would have been able to tell just from his inflection what he thought of _that_ concept.

"Part of that was ballroom lessons," he continued. "For like eight years. I mean, I haven't danced since I was 16 or something, but I still remember some stuff. So maybe I could stand in for you?"

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and Maka thought he looked a little bit shy. "I mean, if you'd rather not, that's fine. You and Kit have worked together for a really long time, so I could understand why you might not want to dance with another partner, but I thought, maybe a stand-in would be better than nothing at all, but it's totally okay if you don't—"

"You'd do that for me?"

"Yeah, why not?"

She gaped at him. "But… you hate being on stage, Soul! I thought that's why you decided not to be a professional musician!"

"This is different," he mumbled. "It's not about me, you know? It's about helping you out."

It was hard to tell against his tan complexion, but Maka thought he might be blushing. She was unreasonably pleased by this, for reasons she already kind of knew, but didn't want to think about right now. There were other things to think about— like getting her severely out-of-practice partner back in the swing of things in time for this to make a difference.

"Come on, Soul," she said. "We've got work to do.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, Soul, move your sloth ass and pick up your feet!"

The only effect Kim's shouting had was to distract Soul, resulting in him fumbling and stepping on her toes. Maka yelped in surprise and pain and pushed him away as he muttered apologies.

"Dammit, Kim, can you maybe not be so goddamn loud?" he groused.

"You've got three weeks 'til the curtain rises, buddy-boy," the ballroom instructor said. "Doing a favor to Maka's all well and good, but if you can't at least make it look good, you're hurting her more than you're helping her."

For a whole tenth of a second, Maka saw a stricken look in Soul's eyes before he shut down and went back to glowering at Kim. "Well, maybe if I didn't have _somebody_ bitching at me every six seconds, I'd be able to _concentrate!_ "

"Yeah, and maybe if you weren't being such a damn jellyfish about it, you guys would've actually made some progress the last couple weeks," Kim snapped.

"It's not my fault!" Soul protested. "It's too fucking fast!"

"It's a quickstep! What the hell d'you expect?"

"GUYS!" Maka interrupted. "If you can't stop bickering for three seconds, then we're gonna have to be done for the day, because _I can't stand listening to you anymore!_ "

Instantly they both looked contrite. "Sorry, Maka," they said in unison, and immediately glared at each other.

She heaved a sigh, running a hand through her hair, lifting the long blonde locks up to allow some cooling air to reach the sweaty back of her neck. It had been like this all day. She knew her rehearsals with Soul in these last couple weeks hadn't really been going well, so she'd brought Kim in to spot them and see if she could give them advice to tighten up their performance. So far all that had been achieved so far was Kim and Soul becoming mortal enemies. Progress was at a standstill, and as much as she hated to admit it, Kim was right: Soul was hindering her more than helping her at this point.

That sucked, too, because she really wanted to make this work. She liked Soul, a lot, more than she'd liked anyone in a long time; dancing with him, even just for a little while, felt like it should be an amazing bonding experience. She wanted to share her passion for her art with him, just like he shared his with her every time he sat down at the keyboard.

"I'm totally right, though," Kim said. "The quickstep is such an aerobic dance, and frankly, Soul just doesn't have the stamina for something like this. The leader has to anticipate their partner's movements, but he isn't even managing to lead properly."

Maka let the words sink in, then looked up and met Soul's arresting eyes squarely. "She's right, Soul," she said.

He had that panicked look in his eyes again. "No, Maka, I can do this!"

"Not with the quickstep, you can't," she countered. "Kit and I put that together because it was such a structured dance. Lots of mirroring, which suits his taste pretty well. But it's too fast for you, there's no way you can master this in the time we've got left."

"So what the hell are we supposed to do?" he asked.

 _We_. She liked that. "We'll have to choose a different style, something a little slower so that you can keep up."

The expression on Soul's face was dangerously close to a pout, and it really shouldn't be as cute as it was. "You shouldn't have to slow down just for me," he said, staring at his shoes with embarrassed pink in his cheeks.

"It's okay," she said reassuringly. "It'll be a nice change of pace, right?"

He didn't look entirely pacified, but he seemed to have run out of reasons— or maybe will— to argue. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, back when you took dance lessons, what styles did you study?"

Soul shrugged. "The waltz. English and Viennese both. And the foxtrot, but I was always really bad at that, even worse than I am at this bullshit."

Maka glanced at Kim, who caught her eye, one eyebrow raised skeptically. Maka shrugged. _A Viennese waltz might do the trick… it'd be hard to put together in just three weeks, though, it's one of the most difficult ballroom styles, even if he has studied it before…_

"Oh, and I learned to tango," he added as an afterthought. "My dad thought it was too risqué for a teenagers, but my grandmother liked it, so…"

A lightbulb went off in Maka's head. "Argentine or ballroom style?" she asked.

"Little bit of both," he said with a shrug.

Maka had to admit, the idea of dancing something so passionate with Soul was incredibly appealing. A slow smile crept across her face…

"Hey, Kim?" she said, not taking her eyes off Soul's face, "Do you and Jackie have any choreography for an Argentine tango stashed away somewhere?"

* * *

Tango, as it turned out, was much more Soul's speed. He insisted that he would do better with a waltz, but Maka refused to change their dance again. If asked, she would have said it was because they were running out of time and that the tango was flashier. Privately, however, it was mostly because she was enjoying the sensuality of the dance. She'd never have been able to pull off a routine like this with Kit, the chemistry would be all wrong. With Soul, however…

He whirled her around and the dance ended with her dipped low, his warm hand supporting her back just inches from the floor and their lips a hairsbreadth apart.

Maka swallowed hard, trying not to get too drawn in by the heat that flared in his eyes. "That was… really great, Soul," she murmured, trying to avoid the fact that their lips were brushing together as she spoke.

He cleared his throat roughly, and with a slight effort, pulled her upright again. "Y-yeah," he said.

It was sweet, really, how flustered he always was every time they danced. Maka had to admit, the best part of the slow burn they had going on was watching Soul get all muddled. They'd have to cross the threshold eventually if they were going to keep spending time together, but the anticipation was made all the more delicious, knowing that he was at least as wound up as she was.

To be fair, the choreography she had picked from Kim and Jackie's selection couldn't be making it easy on him. She'd gone with something a little less athletic than some of the showier tangoes, to account for Soul not really being in dancing shape, but the trade-off for that was that it was a much more intimate, sensual routine.

Clearly trying to play off the awkwardness, Soul forced up a chuckle and said, "Every time you kick your foot between my legs like that I'm convinced you're gonna end up kneeing me in the balls by mistake."

"Oh _please_. I am a consummate professional," she teased. "If I were going to knee you in the balls, it would be one hundred percent intentional."

"Really reassuring, Maka," he scoffed.

"We've still got work to do," she said, ignoring him. "That last drag was a little slow, and you still need to get more comfortable with the _contrapasos_. You up for one more go-around?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Might as well. We've only got a week left, right? It'd be good to get in as much practice as possible before the big night."

"No kidding." She really wished he hadn't said anything, because she was trying really hard to focus on the rehearsal bit and not the fact that one way or another, her fate would be decided in just over seven days. "I know I've said it before, Soul, but thank you so much for doing this. It means so much to me."

He waved a casual hand. "Don't worry about it. What are friends for?"

"Friends, right. But seriously, you've taken so much time out of your own practice schedule to… to…" She trailed off, and her stomach iced over as a horrifying thought occurred to her.

"Maka?" he asked, and she guessed some of what she was thinking must have shown on her face.

"Soul, _the auditorium doesn't have a sound system!_ " she said, trying not to panic. "We won't be able to keep using the recording you made! That little stereo doesn't have enough volume!" She pointed wildly at the CD player sitting in front of the mirrors. "And you're the piano player! We can't dance without music, and we can't have music if you don't play, and if you play, you can't dance with me! What the hell are we going to do?!"

Soul grinned. "I think I've got that covered," he said. "What would you say to dancing to a violin…?"

* * *

"I still cannot believe you're Soul Evans-as-in-yes- _that_ -Evans," Maka said, eyeing Soul's unnervingly charming older brother as he tightened up his bow and slid over the hair with resin.

"Yeah, that's why I didn't mention it before," Soul said from where he was sitting on the piano bench. "I was trying to get away from that life."

Wes snorted. "If by 'that life' you mean the incredibly privileged upbringing with a superior education, all of your material needs taken care of, access to experiences and luxuries only a tiny number of people are lucky enough to enjoy, and a big brother who loves you despite your broody ways," he said, "then I really don't pity you, little bro."

"Shut up, Wes," Soul groaned.

Maka turned around to look at him. He had shed his pinstripe jacket somewhere backstage and was sitting there in his slacks, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up past the elbow beneath his shiny black vest, and he would have looked amazing… if he didn't also look like he was about to throw up.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked, concerned. "You're all pale."

He slumped forward, head in his hands. "Yeah, fine," he said unconvincingly. "Just nervous."

"Don't worry about him, Gorgeous," Wes chimed in sweetly. "He always gets like this before a performance. He'll get it together by the time the curtain rises."

"Fuck you," Soul grumbled.

Maka sighed, wrapping her arms around her midriff to grasp her elbows. "Just don't pass out on me," she said. "I'm nervous enough as it is, I don't need to be fretting about you, too." Her solo routine had gone well— spectacularly so, in fact, a very contemporary ballet piece that brought a gratifying lengthy round of applause from the audience— but this dance was the moment of truth.

"Nah, I'm fine. Seriously," Soul said, though he really didn't look it. "I'm just glad we're the last on the program so I don't have to go back to playing after this. Are you fucking ready yet, Wes?"

"Perfectly ready, you're the one holding us up," Wes said merrily.

Soul sent a gesture his way that was most decidedly not part of their choreography, but got to his feet with an expression reminiscent of a man facing a guillotine.

Maka led him out to the center of the stage as Wes took up his cue and began to play. The melody began soft, Latin in flavor just like the dance it was intended to accompany, and Maka could feel Soul's hand relax in hers before she turned to press her back to his chest, their clasped hands extended over their heads as she tucked her face against his shoulder, nose just brushing the skin of his neck.

She waved a hand at Tsugumi, their one-girl tech crew, who immediately began cranking open the curtains. As the curtains slid apart with a slow clatter of metal and a thump of blue fabric, revealing the audience, a spotlight flashed on and exposed the two of them to the crowd. The little trill that signaled that the first step of the dance was about to begin floated from the strings of Wes's violin.

 _One… two… three…_ **breathe.**

* * *

Stein found them outside the changing rooms, sharing a bottle of water and laughing as the adrenaline of the performance slowly drained from their systems. Maka felt positively giddy. With or without a favorable review tonight, she had had a fantastic time performing with Soul, and if the wide grin on his face was any indication, he also had managed to have a good time despite his nerves.

"Well well, Miss Albarn."

The deep voice of the professor broke through their dizzy mood and brought Maka back to earth with a sharp impact. She was wary as she turned to face him, but she kept her shoulders back and her head high.

"Dr. Stein," she greeted him, as calmly as she could manage.

He surveyed them coolly, glasses flashing in the glaring fluorescent light. "I was under the impression that your usual dance partner was Darby Mortimer," Stein said.

It wasn't really phrased as a question, but Maka treated it as one. "Kit had a family emergency," she said.

"And so the studio's resident pianist filled in?" His eyes flickered to Soul, who was doing an excellent job of trying to fade into the painted brickwork behind him. "Quite a risky move, don't you think? Taking the stage with someone so green?"

"Not any riskier than missing the chance to show you the real extent of my skill," she challenged.

His expression was difficult to read, and Maka's heart was going at about a thousand miles an hour. She reached behind her to grab Soul's hand, needing the reassurance badly. He squeezed her fingers in reply, and it was exactly what she needed.

"So what did you think?" she asked, meeting his eyes squarely and trying to hide the fact that her knees were trembling.

"I think that you made some very unorthodox choices tonight," Stein said, and Maka's veins froze in a moment of sheer anticipatory terror.

"Lucky for you," he continued, "I have a higher than usual appreciation for the unorthodox."

Her blood started flowing again and she sagged a bit in relief. "So you'll do it?" she asked, somewhat disbelieving. "You'll get me in?"

A genuine smile appeared on Stein's face. "I think DCCFFA would be fortunate to have you as a student, Maka."

She couldn't help it— she shrieked like a little girl and whirled to face Soul, grabbing his shoulders and jumping up and down. He didn't quite join in her jubilant bouncing, but the enthusiasm was clearly infectious as he beamed at her, allowing her to yank him around in her fit of joy.

"Thank you so much!" she squealed. "I couldn't have done it without you!"

"Nah, you'd have pulled it off," he demurred, but his eyes were alive with something blazing and tender. "You're amazing like that."

And she didn't even have to think about it; she leapt up on her toes and kissed him square on the mouth.

Soul's arms came around her and he lifted her up off her feet for a moment, joining in the kiss with an enthusiasm that proved to her that she had most definitely not been reading him wrong all these months. His mouth was soft and warm and tasted like cinnamon gum, and she could feel him smiling against her lips.

Their kiss was chaste compared to the depth of the attraction Maka felt for him, but a few seconds later, she found herself infinitely glad of that when Stein cleared his throat behind them.

Soul jumped in surprise and very nearly dropped her, and Maka let out an indignant squawk as she scrambled to keep her feet.

"I'll be going then," Stein said dryly. "I can see you two have better things to do. Maka, speak to Marie when you get the chance, she can discuss the details of your re-application."

Feeling the heat in her cheeks, Maka nodded, and kept her eyes fixed on Stein and her hands clenched tightly together until he had disappeared around the corner.

Once he was out of sight, however, she turned to face Soul who was, if possible, even redder than she must be at the moment. A few seconds ago the air between them had been ecstatic and affectionate, but Stein had broken the mood, and now things were just awkward.

"So..." she said, trying to prompt him into starting a conversation.

Soul shuffled his feet a little and almost managed to meet her eye as he said, "That's really not how I pictured our first kiss going."

"Been thinking about us kissing a lot, then?" she teased.

"Hey, you started it, not me," he groused.

She reached out again to grab his hands, tugging him closer. He didn't resist, allowing himself to be reeled in, and just like that, the intimate warmth of the atmosphere returned. She let him initiate contact this time, and he leaned in eagerly to find her lips in another soft, sweet kiss. It was still shorter and more chaste than Maka wanted, but maybe that was okay. They'd have time to work their way up to that, after all.

Soul broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers in a gesture so affectionate she thought she might have a heart attack right then and there.

"Wanna get coffee sometime?" he asked, looking utterly delighted with his lot in life.

"Wanna go get coffee right now?" she countered, beaming up at him.

"That sounds awesome."

Maka was a pretty cheerful person naturally, but she was fairly certain that if she kept smiling this hard, she was going to break her jaw or something. "Great, just let me get out of this stupid thing and into something a little more weather appropriate," she said. She made to step away, but Soul didn't let go of her hands just yet.

"I dunno," he said, giving her a once-over, "I think you look pretty good in green."

"I'll keep that in mind for future reference," she said with a devious smirk. Slipping her fingers free from his, she sashayed away, biting her lip to muffle her delighted laughter until she was out of his earshot and bubbling with the anticipation of what she hoped would be the first date of many.


End file.
